


Catharsis

by comtessedebussy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM Scene, Belts, Caning, Dom!Thomas, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Literary References & Allusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 07:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12228348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: “I need to hurt. I need you to make me hurt.” His voice seems to sputter out like a candle in the breeze as he says it.Silver returns - briefly - but the words he speaks break James no less for that. Thomas is left to pick up the pieces.(alternatively, the gentle dom!Thomas fic I have been craving)





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> James is not in a good place, mentally, in this fic. Thomas helps him cope as best they can, which his perhaps not the best way of coping, but it's all they got at the moment. 
> 
> Thank you to bean for the beta-ing, help, and suggestions!

Silver enters their calm, peaceful existence like a meteor crashing to earth, shaking the ground, sending ripples and waves through the seas, leaving a smoldering crater of destruction in his wake. Strange, for he looks much the same as ever – shorter than James, insignificant, unremarkable. He speaks with the same unhurried drawl, as if he has all the time in the world, his voice never raised above a conversational tone, but every word that falls from his lips makes James’ skin crawl. He is here because he wants something, has _presumed_ that James will listen -

“You _knew,_ ” he interrupts before Silver gets a sentence out. “For _weeks_ , you knew Thomas was alive, and now you have the audacity to claim that you reunited us – “

“Weeks? What is mere weeks to the years he was imprisoned there?” Silver asks.

“If you think that justifies anything – “

“Years, and you never found him,” Silver says, and the air gets stuck somewhere between James’ mouth and his lungs. He can’t breathe, suddenly, and he grips the table beside him for strength, for he thinks his body might give out at that moment.

“You blame me because I did not tell you he lived, but had you thought to look, you would have found him yourself,” Silver continues, unperturbed. “Ten years, and you were so occupied with your war, your rage, your revenge that you never thought to look. And to think, _you_ could have saved him years of pain and suffering, years of enslavement – “

“Get out,” a voice snarls from behind him. Thomas’ voice, incandescent with fury.

Silver opens and closes his mouth several times, like a fish out of water. Thomas strides across the room and faces him down. Their height difference is significant, and Thomas glows with rage. Perhaps it is the lack of air in his lungs, but the world seems to narrow at the edges suddenly, Thomas the brightly glowing spot at the center of it, Silver somewhere on the periphery, and nothing besides that.

“Get the fuck out of our house,” Thomas repeats, “or, God help me, you will not leave it alive.”

Silver gapes at him, and James tries to relish how pathetic he looks as he limps away, but instead he doubles over and attempts to breathe. Thomas watches as he leaves, then rushes over to James. James raises his head to look at him in desperation.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to say somehow, and pleads for Thomas to believe him.  Thomas has to believe him, Thomas has to _know._ His good, kind, gentle Thomas, who has been able to forgive so many of his faults, his many crimes as Flint, surely he could forgive this one as well?

Thomas wraps him in his arms, and James would feel safe, wants to feel safe, except, well, it should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? James should have kept _Thomas_ safe, should have protected him, should have saved him, and he extricates himself from the embrace.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. “Do not act as if I’m innocent. He was right. I failed you, too many times to count.”

“No,” Thomas says fiercely. “You have never failed me. You have only ever been my strength.”

But the words do not comfort him. They are like a blow, and James sinks down onto the chair and weeps. It _hurts,_ to fail a man who is so good.

Thomas kneels by him, and James can sense him starting to get a little desperate. He cradles James’ face in his hands, so calloused and yet so soft, so loving. His thumbs wipe away the tears from his cheeks, but the care with which he does it only makes more of them pour from James’ eyes.

“What do you need, James? Whatever it is, tell me.”

James drags his gaze to Thomas’, but cannot meet his eyes for more than a moment.

“I need – “ It used to be easier to ask for this, before, in London, when he hadn’t _needed_ it in the same way, when it had been just another sensation, another of the many ways they made love. Either his hands or Thomas’ bound, sometimes blindfolded, giving themselves over, full of love and trust, letting joyous sounds fall from their lips, occasionally soft blows interspersed with loving kisses…

It’s different now. He craves the blows against his skin, thirsts for the way that pain cleanses when it washes over him. Catharsis – a purging, a relief, literally beaten from his body.

“I need to hurt. I need you to make me hurt.” His voice seems to sputter out like a candle in the breeze as he says it.

Thomas controls his reaction quite admirably, and only a fraction of it flutters briefly over his expression. He is silent for a moment, and James’ heart sinks. He’s trying to drag Thomas into the muck with him. After all Thomas has been through, and now he asks for _this._

“If that is what you truly need, I will not deny you,” he says finally, with a kind of forced determination. “But James, just because I give you punishment, do not think for a moment that I believe you deserve it.”

James says nothing. Thomas may not believe he deserves it, but he certainly does, though he does not have the strength at the moment to convince Thomas of it.

“Thank you,” he manages instead.

“What shall I use?” Thomas switches to the logistics, businesslike. It’s easier that way.

“I – give me a few minutes,” he says, rising. He grabs his sword and knife and exits their little house, making his way to the trees in their orchard. One of them had died of frost several winters ago, its wood dry and cracked. He cuts a rod from it, strong yet supple, and sands it quickly. It is by no means the exquisite job that he usually likes to make of his woodwork, but it’ll do. It won’t leave splinters in his arse, at least, and for the moment, that’s all he needs.

He had heard that, sometimes, in the navy, a particularly cruel captain would force a sailor to fashion the very cat-o-nine-tails that he would be flogged with. James had had his fair share of corporeal punishment in the service, though never had he had to fashion the means of that punishment himself – until now. It gives him a sort of twisted pleasure, to pour all his skill (though his abilities as a carpenter were far rustier than his other aptitudes) and his dedication into the task. He has never been one to leave a job half-done, and when he is finished, he is quite pleased with his handiwork. Pleased, too, at how _effective_ it’ll be.

He returns to the house and presents Thomas with the cane and a belt. Thomas takes the cane gingerly into his hands, examining it. He purses his lips, and a pensive look dawns over his face, as if he’s not quite in this moment, but says nothing – on that matter, at least.

“Thank you. Would you lean against the table for me, James?” Thomas says finally. Wordlessly, James undresses. He presses his hands against the polished wood (his own making), leaning over as if to scrutinize a map or chart. The position is a familiar one, reminiscent of the many hours he spent pouring over papers, plans, numbers, schedules. Searching for the Spanish gold, waging a war, thinking he was doing it all _for Thomas_ while Thomas toiled away thanklessly under the overseer’s whip -

Thomas places a gentle hand against James’ side, and James trembles. Thomas’ touch normally soothes him, but right now, the gentleness of the caress is unbearable.

Thomas starts with the belt. These blows are child’s play, and James does not make a sound. No, what they elicit from him is mere annoyance, the pain a distraction from his thoughts in much the same way as a loud cry might be when he attempts to work. It is familiar, easy, even, to push the pain away and focus, as he has done so many times. The cut of a sword, bullets, aching ribs and broken bones, he had ignored it all because he had to, standing just like this to work through it, because he had thought it _necessary -_  

“ _Stop thinking,_ ” Thomas says, breaking into his thoughts.

“Make me,” he retorts, but it is less a challenge than a plea.

The blows fall harder this time, though still methodical, no inch of skin feeling the belt twice over. He bows his head, accepting them one by one. Thomas does not count, nor has he given him a number. James likes it better that way, no end in sight, no final point on which he might focus. That would give him too much clarity, a final hurdle to reach that would sharpen his mind. Instead, he is forced into focusing on reigning in each sound as it tries to fall from his lips, and his mind, engaged on the task of his own silence, wanders less to past possibilities.

He revels in this, in the effort it requires to keep himself still and silent, but also in the pain itself. Pain he excelled at, could dominate and bend to his will. He had failed Thomas many a time, but _this,_ at least, he was good at.

He breathes more harshly now, attempting to find a steadying grip, but his fingernails curl helplessly against the smooth wood. His body begs him to shy away, to flee the blows, and with a perverse pleasure he wills it into stillness. It was for this reason that he had not wanted to be bound, had desired another exercise for his will that would urge his thoughts away from more painful matters.

For a moment, the blows stop, and again Thomas’ hand is on his side, as if gentling a wild beast. Thomas offers no praise, no reassurances, and James is grateful for it. He stands still as Thomas’ palm traces the curve of his spine, the only comfort he receives.

Then Thomas is gone from his side. There is a clink, as the belt is set aside, the slight creak of wood as Thomas steps over an old floorboard (it really needs to be fixed, James thinks), then another sound, one almost reminiscent of a wind blowing in the sails –

He expects the blow, but it is still a surprise, and he cannot keep silent his grunt of pain. Another, over the delicate skin Thomas has reddened with the belt, and it stings. They fall less regularly now, more erratic, and his mind searches for the slightest sound that will tell him when to expect the next neat, delicate line of fire over his skin. But they are as erratic as they are unyielding; two of them follow one upon the other like waves, only to lead to a lengthy calm, and just as he begins to wonder, to think, it comes again, an agonizing line of pain that radiates across his skin.

He gives up guessing, lets himself be at Thomas’ mercy, a drowning man too busy keeping afloat to think of much else. He gives up silence, too, as grunts and moans fall reluctantly from him. He draws in shaky breaths that end as small cries, and he relishes this.

Just as he thinks he can’t take any more – which is a lie, really, it’s just the point at which he doesn’t _want_ to take any more, but of course he can. That is what a man must do – it the blows fall, and there is no way to escape, he takes it, does it not? He endures, he survives, because he _must,_ and he has endured far worse. The bullet had caused a fiercer agony, but he had endured, for there was no simply on escape from it. Just then – Thomas pauses. He takes a shaky breath, and his mind seeks around for purchase, for any sound, any movement that he can cling to.

Thomas’ hand is on him again, gentle as ever as it traces up his spine, to his neck, up to his head, and he exhales carefully.

“That was quite impressive,” Thomas says, but though his voice is soft, it dominates the small room, the same voice with which Thomas has dominated a salon, argued men twice his age in circles. James relishes the praise, even as his stomach twists in knots, wondering what words would follow in that authoritative voice.

“But you can take more, can you not, Captain?” Thomas asks.

James inhales quickly. He had not expected the title. Had not really expected the question, either, but the answer is obvious.

“Yes,” he says, because Thomas is asking.

“A dozen more, I think,” Thomas says. It isn’t a question, and so James offers no assent.

James counts in his head – instinct. Thomas’ hand remains on him as each blow falls, and somehow, through some imperceptible magic, or perhaps their unearthly intimacy and knowledge of each other, Thomas always knows _when._ Can feel James tense, can feel his breathing stutter and then calm, and a blow never falls until he is ready for is.  

Or as ready as he can be. His arse is all alight with pain, so much so that he can hardly tell where it ends and the rest of his body begins. There is that first agonizing touch of the cane, and James things that were it a caress it would still send ripples of fire across his skin, but Thomas does not hold back, and the fire spreads across already inflamed skin. Then it quiets somewhat, evens out, so that it is all pain, no one point greater than another, and that is when the blow falls again. The same exercise repeats, a dozen times, with the space between each blow stretching longer and longer as James’ body endures with the last of its strength.

That hand is there, too, to anchor him, a point of strength through that first agony, a gentleness in one hand that belies the violence of the blows administered by the other. His mind grapples helplessly between the two extremes, the soft caress of one hand and the cruel blows of another, seeking feverishly to find some sense in the contradiction. 

After the twelfth blow is a silence, and he breathes in relief, but then a thirteenth falls. He cries out, too surprised to restrain himself, his body bucking away from it before he has even realized it has moved, but he offers no complaint.

“A baker’s dozen,” Thomas says. “I suppose I should have clarified.”

James’ arms shake as he struggles to hold himself up, but Thomas is there, gathering James into his arms, and suddenly, he can support neither his own weight nor his burden. He sinks in relief into Thomas’ arms, finally, openly weeping – not from the way his skin is all afire, but because the pain seems to have opened the floodgates that he kept so tightly shut. He has poured all his strength into withstanding his pain, and there is none left to keep the flood of tears at bay. His body hurts in every way, and he feels small, and broken, and shattered, but Thomas is keeping him together in his arms, mending the cracks with gold until he is whole again.

Thomas lifts him easily, carrying him as a bride to the bed. James was used to being the stronger one, in their other life, _before,_ but ten years of toil have made Thomas a match for James in strength. Now it is James so effortlessly in the arms of his lover and protector, who deposits him onto their bed.

His body is sore, but he does not bleed, and there is little to do to ease the pain itself. Instead, Thomas settles into the bed beside him and draws him close. He lets the last of James’ tears fall onto his chest and strokes his head.

“You were so strong, James,” Thomas whispers into his skin. “So strong, for me. So _perfect._ ”

He curls around Thomas, clings to him. _Hold me,_ he says wordlessly, and Thomas does, traces patterns soothingly over the expanse of James’ back and neck, avoiding trailing lower, where the gentlest touch would set his skin aflame.

“I have never seen such strength as you have,” Thomas continues, sounding awed. “The way you took that, without a plea, without a sound.” He pauses, as if imagining it again, his voice almost breathless. “The way you _gave yourself_ to me, so completely, and took all I gave you.” He seems to run out of words, as if he can’t find the ones to encompass this.

“You could withstand hell itself, I think, with your will of iron,” Thomas says.

“Thank you,” he whispers, for what Thomas has given him, and for the words he speaks now.

Thomas gives a soft sigh. “I gave you punishment because you asked for it, though it gave me no pleasure,” he says. “But after punishment comes forgiveness, and I give you that too, though I believe there is nothing to forgive, just as I believe you deserved no punishment.”

James sobs silently this time, the tears falling from his cheeks onto Thomas’ chest. What had he ever done to deserve a man like Thomas? He curls even tighter around him, tucking his head into Thomas’ shoulder, where he doesn’t have to see the world, doesn’t have to know anything exists beyond their little haven.

“Read to me,” he asks.

“Which story would you like to hear?”

“Of Odysseus. And Penelope,” he says, and Thomas recites from memory. He closes his eyes, and the words wash over him, a honeyed, soothing thing.  

“Now from his breast into his eyes the ache  
of longing mounted, and he wept at last,  
his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms,  
longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer  
spent in rough water where his ship went down  
under Poseidon's blows, gale winds and tons of sea.  
Few men can keep alive through a big serf  
to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches  
in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind.”

He can feel a dumb smile spreading over his face. The world is gone, faded. There is nothing but their warm bed, built with his own hands as Odysseus’ gift to his Penelope, Thomas’ voice, Thomas in his arms, dear and faithful to him for those ten years…

“You shouldn’t have had to wait for so long,” he says into Thomas’ skin, where his face is planted into his shoulder. “I should have returned to you sooner.”  

“The gods kept Penelope and Odysseus apart for a decade, just as fate has separated us for just as long. Would you fight the will of the gods, my Odysseus?” 

“Gods and men. I would lay waste to all who dare to keep you from my arms,” James declares.

“God, how I love you,” Thomas says, sounding breathless again. “I love you so fiercely it burns me from the inside out. And yet it is a flame that sustains, the reason I survived those ten years. How many times I might have…not. All those cold and bitter nights when I thought of ceasing to be. But then I thought of you, my brave hero, strong and intrepid. I _lived_ because of you.”

James swallows and says nothing. Thomas’ death is a reality he had lived with for near ten years; contemplating it for even a moment longer threatens to break him in a way that made the beating he had just endured pale in comparison.

Finally, he finds the words to speak, recites the answering lines as they had so often done in a rhythmic dance, a give-and-take that encompassed their entire partnership. He is not sure he believes Odysseus’ words, but it comforts him to say them, like treading a familiar road home after many years away.

"What ordeals have we not endured! Here, waiting,  
you had your grief, while my return dragged out -  
my hard adventures, pitting myself against  
the gods’ will, and Zeus, who pinned me down  
far from home.”

He pauses, a break in the lilting meter, and it is Thomas who completes the line.

“But now our life resumes."

…….

Life resumes, Thomas thinks, but the past can never be unmade.

Well, this Penelope has done more than sit and wait. In that past, this Penelope has learned how to do more than suffer and endure. He has learned to fight and to survive. This Penelope can also be an Odysseus, and lay waste to whatever man dared keep James from his arms

And above all, he would lay waste to the one who broke the strongest man he’s ever known.


End file.
